


This New Life

by WinchesterandAngel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Archangels, Canon Compliant, Car Sex, Castiel's 1978 Lincoln Continental (Supernatural), Declaration of Love, First Kiss, Human!Castiel - Freeform, Led Zeppelin References, M/M, Magic, Season 15, Sigils, Spell work, The Empty, angel summoning, carpool karaoke, season 15 spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27709111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinchesterandAngel/pseuds/WinchesterandAngel
Summary: Dean wants Cas back. He needs him back.(My headcanon after 15.19. 15.20 never happened)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

It was absolutely pouring. The window wipers on the Continental were going at top speed, and it was doing fuck all with visibility. The raindrops falling from the pitch black sky were the size of dinner plates and they exploded on the windshield like tiny nukes being dropped from a fighter plane. The wind wasn’t helping either. As the old car glided down the dark back road, it would rock with the gusts cutting across it. If Dean wasn’t as strong as he is, they would’ve been head first into a tree by now.

Castiel sat in the passenger seat, his hand gripping the door handle, his knuckles almost white. He wasn’t usually nervous about weather or driving, but this situation wasn’t sitting well with him. He pursed his lips as he breathed deeply in and out of his nose, his nostrils flaring with every exhale. He had full faith in Dean being able to get them back to the bunker though.

He glanced over at the hunter. He was slightly leant forward with squinty eyes and he had both hands on the wheel. A few veins were popping on the back of his hand as he gripped the wheel tightly, steering back against the gale force winds that attack his side of the vehicle. 

They have been on the road for a few hours and they drove into this weather system maybe 30 minutes ago and unfortunately it didn’t seem to show any sign on letting up.

Suddenly, a shot of lightning flashed ahead. Dean slammed on the brakes when he saw the lighting bolt catch a tree, emitting another giant flash and the tree toppled, falling onto the road 50 feet away from the nose of the car. 

There was a pregnant pause between the two men before Dean curses and punches the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, “Son of a bitch!”

“What do we do?” asked Cas.

Dean glanced over at the former angel next to him. Now that he was human, he couldn’t use his powers to lift and move the tree. He bit his lip as he twisted in his seat and looked to the back bench. Seeing nothing, he spun back to face forward.

“Do you have a machete in the trunk?”

Cas tilted his head in classic Castiel style, confused. “Yes, why?”

“I’ll just chop that sucker down and move it.” Dean shrugged and began to take off his seatbelt.

“What? Dean, no!” Cas argued back. He grabbed the hunters bicep tightly and Dean stopped from reaching for the door handle. The corner of his mouth twisted up and he shook his head.

“Cas, it’ll be fine. I’ll just go grab-“

Another flash of lighting shot across the sky, accompanied by a deep explosion of thunder that practically shook the car. Both men froze.

Dean’s mouth closed and his brows snapped up. He glanced out the windshield, and around him out the drivers side window. “Or uh….we can just wait it out?”

Castiel let out a breath and dropped his grip from Dean’s arm. He didn’t realize how tight he was gripping the hunters bicep until he let go and two of his knuckles popped. He slumped back against the passenger seat.

Dean turned off the car stretched his body out against the seat, wiggling his phone out of his back pocket. He held it up close to the windshield, the drivers window, and then across in front of Cas, searching for a signal. Nothing. 

“No bars. Wherever the fuck we are, there’s probably no one around for at least a few miles. Highly doubt anyone will drive by either as they're probably smarter than us to drive in this weather.” He dropped his phone into the center console between him and Castiel and crossed his arms. 

“We’re stuck here then.” Cas stated promptly.

“Yep.” Dean replies, dragging out the Y and popping the P. 

The two of them sat there in silence for a bit, the rain still pelting the car violently. The loud pangs of the rain hitting the metal roof above them filled the empty space of nothing next to their breathing and Dean’s occasional click of his tongue.

Eventually, the quiet became to much for Dean and his shifted up in his seat. “Okay, I’m bored.”

Cas looked at him quizzically. “Alright. What do you suggest?”

Dean reached over and popped open the glove box. He rummaged through it until he found what he was looking for. “Aha!”

He grabbed a cassette tape with a wire attached to it. Cas looked at the item confused. “What is that?”

Dean frowned at the former angel, “It’s a cassette adapter. I’m disappointed that you don’t know what it is cause I put it in here for you.”

Cas only responded with, “Oh.” 

Dean expected more, but not getting anymore out of the angel, his rolled his eyes and unravelled the cord from around the cassette. He popped it into the tape deck and switched the ignition one click. The lights on the dashboard turned on as well as the small display on the stereo. He grabbed his phone, searched around for a playlist and plugged the aux cord into the phone. Almost immediately, Led Zeppelin’s ‘Good Times Bad Times’ started playing over the Continentals speakers. Dean was actually impressed with the quality of the sound. Much cleaner than the impalas. Clearly whoever Cas stole the car from appreciated good acoustics. The bass drum was super punchy from the subwoofer in the trunk.

Cas watched as Dean started bouncing his head to the beat. The former angel hadn’t heard this song before. Maybe it wasn’t a huge favourite of Dean’s. The hunter knew the song though as he found out when Dean started to pat his thighs, drumming along with John Bonham.

Dean turned turned his bobbing head to Cas, his lips pursed resembling a duck and he started to mouth along.

 _“In the days of my youth, I was told what it was to be a man.”_ He grinned at Cas who couldn’t help a little smile tease his lips. Dean brought his hands to his torso as he pretended to play guitar with Jimmy Page, his top teeth biting his bottom lip.

 _“Now I've reached the age, I’ve tried to do all those things the best I can.”_

Dean continued to air jam along with the rest of the verse and chorus and Cas was quite entertained by the show happening before him. Despite what happened earlier with the reason why they are even in this moment, Dean was in good spirits. It caused a warmth to puddle in Cas’ gut. He didn’t know what it was or where it came from, but he welcomed it.

“Okay okay, here comes the best part!” Dean grabs Cas’ wrists. He guides one up near Castiels left shoulder and one by his chest. “Do that, and then flick your fingers like his.” He demonstrates with his right hand by flicking his index and middle finger like he is playing the strings of a bass guitar. Cas’ copies him just as the solo bass part plays right after the chorus. The hunter throws his head back and lets out a loud belly laugh.

Cas’ had no idea what just happened but Dean is having the time of his life so he’s happy.

They do this for 2 more songs, jamming along playing air guitar and Dean using every surface in reach as a drum, slapping his hands with confidence even if he wasn’t on beat. Even slapping Cas’ arm a couple times. “Anything is fair game!”

Eventually, Dean turns down the music and sinks in his seat, small chuckles escaping his lips.

“Whoo…” he sing-songs, “Aw man, I needed that.”

Cas nods and smiles at his lap. He’s long lost his trench coat by now and threw it into the back seat along with Dean’s jacket. All that drumming and bass playing made it warm in the small cabin of the car, and the windows were so fogged up you couldn’t see in or out. If anyone drove by now, they would think that they hot-boxed the car. 

Castiel checks his phone. Thankfully he’s still got 50% battery left and the time says 11:45 pm. He sees Dean in his peripheral peek a look at the screen as well and sigh. “I guess we could sleep the rest of the time away. It’s supposed to clear up in the next couple hours. Might as well get a little shut eye.”

The former angel locks his phone and places it on top of Dean’s in the centre console. “Agreed. You look terrible.”

The hunter glares at him. “Ow.” He deadpans, which makes Cas’ chuckle. Dean sat up and peered into the backseat. “I’ll take the back.”

Castel nods, “I’ll watch over you.” As he lifts his gaze back up, he locks eyes with Dean.

“Cas…you’re human now. You gotta sleep too.”

It completely slipped his mind. Of course now that he said that, he does feel a heaviness behind his eyes. His eyes dropped to his lap, “R-right…”

The hunters face softened. “How are you doing with that anyway? You haven’t said much.”

“Well…” Cas starts to speak, but stops. He hasn’t thought about it really. He’s just been going with the motions. He’s been human before, years ago, but that was such a minuscule moment in time that he didn’t really remember what it was like. Now, it’s more permanent. He had to give up his grace to come back to earth. The only way he could escape and leave The Empty was if he left his grace behind. Human’s don’t belong in The Empty. If he had no grace, he wasn’t an angel, and he would be cast out, which is exactly what happened not even two weeks ago. 

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice pulled him out of his head and he looked up at the hunter with knotted brows.

“I’m…I’m alright, I guess.” Cas finally answers.

“Is it different? As compared to last time?”

Castiel bit the inside of his cheek. “Yes and no. I mean…I don’t feel physically different. I’m still me, but…there is something…missing.”

Dean twisted in his seat, bending his right leg and sitting sideways, facing Cas. “Missing as in…your grace?”

“In a way, yes.” Cas shrugs. “There was an energy that flowed through me when I had my grace. I could always feel it. In my hands, in my legs, in my head. It was like…a drug flowing through my veins. I felt it hit every finger tip, and circle back up my arms and down my body into the ground.”

“Like electricity?” Dean speaks softly.

“Yes, exactly like electricity.” Cas pauses. “But now…it’s not there. My body feels…dull.”

Dean watches as the former angel lowers his head and watches his fingers fidget with the end of his tie. He can’t relate to how he feels, but he wishes he could. He wished he could have little perspective so he could help Cas. It’s only been two weeks since he’s been back, and the way they left things when he sacrificed himself really put a strain on their relationship. 

They haven’t talked about it yet. The rescue. It never seemed like the right time between Jack being the new god, and all of them trying to figure out their new normal. No gods, no demons, no angels. Everyone was back to where they belonged, doing whatever the hell it is that they did before the world decided to try and end itself over and over.

When Jack said he was going to be a “hands-off” kind of god, the hope in Dean’s heart dissipated. But after multiple nights of Dean drinking until he was flat on the floor, staring up at the bunkers cold white ceilings, and Sam carrying the dead weight of his brother to his room, he finally broke.

He summoned Jack, after consuming a whole bottle of scotch in his entertainment room. He locked the door to keep Sam out and out of the way because he knew that he would stop him. Talk him out of it. 

_“Cas did this for you! He sacrificed himself to save you! It was his choice. Can’t you just leave well alone? His sacrifice would be meaningless!”_ He would say.

Sam knew his brother more than anyone else in the whole world. Of course he wouldn’t leave well alone. 

Fuck that.

Dean lit the match and dropped it in the worn silver bowl sitting in front of him on the bar. The hunter lifted his head and looked around the room, listening intently for a swish of wings or for the light bulbs to spontaneously burst but all he was met with was silence.

Five more minutes went by, then ten. After 20 minutes, he gave up. Jack wasn’t coming. Not even for Cas.

Jack was gonna stay true to his word, and it hurt Dean to his core.

He had to think of something else.

A couple days later, Dean sat in the library, piles upon piles of books surrounded him on the table. He was halfway through a thick leather bound book and he dragged his index finger slowly across the page as he read each line carefully, not wanting to miss a single piece of information that could help him get his angel back.

He didn’t hear Sam’s footsteps trudge up the small staircase into the library and towards him but the screech of the chair being dragged across the old hardwood floor startled him out of his wordy trance. He glared at his younger brother as he sat down with a thump. Sam froze when he locked eyes with Dean. “Sorry.”

Dean pushed his glasses up off his nose and rested them on top of his head. Yeah, that’s a thing now. Now that Chuck isn’t controlling their lives anymore, they don’t have the luxury of Winchester luck. Dean’s vision started to go and he found out he was now farsighted. He tried contacts, but he couldn’t handle touching his eyes with his finger. It’s hilariously ironic. The #1 best hunter in the world gets the heebie jeebies when it comes to touching his own eyeballs. 

The older hunter rubs his eyes aggressively, “What’s up Sam?”

“You’ve been sat here reading for hours. Even I don’t do that. What are you looking for anyway?” Sam cranes his neck to try and read the cover of a book that sat on the top of one stack but Dean slams his hand down on the book, covering up the title.

“Nothing, just expanding my knowledge.” He replies with a tight lipped grin. 

Right off the bat, Sam doesn’t believe him. He wants to press further but he knows that Dean will end up shutting him down so he doesn’t. Instead, he stands up. “Alright then. It’s late so I’m gonna call it.”

Dean just hums. Apparently that was a good enough response for him. Sam would beg to differ, but he decides to let it go. He waves him off and heads to the war room. “Good night!” He calls without turning around.

Dean is too engulfed in the current section he’s reading to hear Sam chirp “ _Ass face_ ” as he rounds the corner to the bedroom hall way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE THANK YOU TO HyFrLarry1224 for being an co-author on this chapter!!! I couldn't have done it without her!

Dean waits til it’s late to leave the bunker. Him and Sam stayed up and watched the new Mandalorian episode and right as the credits rolled, Dean glanced over and saw Sam passed out on the couch, the bowl of popcorn on his lap tilting dangerously.

With a chuckle, Dean stood up and moved the bowl to the coffee table in front of the couch. He grabbed a blanket from Sam’s bed next to him and draped it over the young Winchester gently. He turned off the TV and, as quietly as he could, walked out of the room and closed the door.

Dean let out a big sigh as he walked down the hall. “Alright, let’s do this.”

He grabbed all the supplies and ingredients he needed. Bowl, chalk, herbs, a knife, a growler of holy oil and some candles and packed everything in a duffle. He rushed to the impala and sped out of the garage. He knew of an abandoned barn maybe 30 minutes away down highway 281 so he headed there.

It was 3 am when he finally arrived at the barn. He pulled into the dusty driveway and around a sharp turn behind some tall trees and shifted the impala into park. He grabbed the duffle bag and got out and headed towards the grungy, weathered barn, but not before he grabbed his .45 pistol out of the trunk, loaded it with Angel killing bullets. You know, just in case. Oh, and a crowbar.

He pried the barn door open with the crowbar with minimal effort and the latch on it snapped. The rust almost eroded the whole thing useless. He was surprised no kids broke in yet and trashed the place. As he stepped in, he noticed it still had equipment in it like an old rusty tractor to his right and a hay elevator on the left. Pitchforks and saws hung on the pillars lining the center aisle and he spotted a wagon wheel hanging high on the back wall in front of him.

Thankfully the barn had wooden floors, so he put the duffle bag down with a thump and started to work. He grabbed the chalk and started to draw a sigil. One large circle with two lines going through it, dividing it into 4 quarters. He then drew a symbol in each quarter and a symbol at the end of each line.

He lit 4 candles and placed them beside each symbol outside the circle. 

The candles flickered across the chipped white walls in hazardous shapes, starling him more than once as the orange flames cast shadows of his crouched body and fingers into gnarled tree-like branches. He placed the bowl down and dropped the herbs, petals, and leaves from the bunkers pantry into it.

Dean stood from his crouch and attempted to scrub the exhaustion clinging to his heavy eyes. A thirty six hour bender of drinking without sleep has done a number on his body, especially now given Chuck’s lack of helpful influence, and he realized with popping knees and the newly discovered vision problems that he wasn’t the young hunter he used to be. 

He let out a deep shaky breath as he raised an unsteady hand to pat at his numerous pockets, searching for the crumpled piece of paper with a sloppily written incantation scribbled on it. 

He wasn’t sure it would work- and if it did, who exactly it would bring back.  
His heart raced. The calm he had back in the car flew out the door as soon as he stepped into the barn. Through the rotted boards, Dean can hear the crickets outside. The only sound entering his ears next to his laboured breathing. 

He stares for a moment at the set up in front of him with furrowed brows and squinted eyes, as if enough concentration will start the ritual and he wouldn’t have to initiate anything, but to no avail. The barn door rattled against the frame as a gust of wind caught it, the slap of the wood interrupting the crickets banter. The colder breeze hit his ankles and ran up his legs in encouragement and he took a step forward towards his duffle bag and grabbed a dark red stained growler.

He pours a large ring of the oil behind the sigil, at least 7-8 feet in diameter, making sure to go over it twice so there is a solid perimeter of the substance, and then he lights it. Orange flames illuminate his face, pitting his eyes and highlighting his cheekbones. He’s been doing this long enough to do it properly, but his gut still knots, a small hint of insecurity of what may or may not show up. They say three times a charm but who knows if he’ll make it to three?

It wasn’t a guarantee _he_ would show, or that he _could_ show. Yet the harm was never in trying. 

It was almost always in succeeding. 

“Right...” he mutters to himself, and he cleared his throat.

After nearly three months of feeling like an empty paper-thin bag, drifting to the tune of the tides around him, Dean was finally staring in the face of his solution. What he’s hunted down after scouring what felt like the entire world. 

And yet, the hesitation still clung to him. His breath turned ragged as he hooked his glasses on the bridge of his nose and squinted down at the crumpled paper. In the low lighting, the scribbled handwriting was harsh and nearly illegible. As if that mattered. As if he hadn’t memorized it. 

“Ecce sto-” he began weakly, a feeble attempt at casting his voice in the room. Clearing his throat again, he shook out the paper and ran a shaking palm across the surface, trapping it in his grasp. “ut ostenderet se superiori petendo a tua et dirige maius metam...” 

He could already feel a small change in the air around him. It was almost like the molecules in the empty space were being pushed out of place. The metal sheeting on the roof started to rattle and shift as the wind began to pick up. The hunter looked up towards the banging. His heart pounded against his rib cage and huffs of hot breath escaped through his lips in small translucent clouds.

A small pop sounded behind him and he jumped and spun just in time to see another light bulb hanging from the ceiling pop and spark out. The air drew thin then, crackling with a confined electricity that had every single hair on Dean’s body spiking to attention. Almost as if the sudden spike of energy, the manifestation of secluding molecules, sucked every last viable breath of air. 

In a violent gust, the wind swept beneath the door and had it slamming open, creaking on it’s hinges as dried leaves rolled through the opening and slapped at Dean’s legs, sticking like plaster. “What the f-” he began to question, spinning on his heels only to be hit with another gust of wind.

Dean’s boots scuffed against the splintered, rotted flooring. He was struggling to find traction as the invisible force slammed against him in current after current; exposed wires and exploding light bulbs sending dangerous sparks into the already over charged air. Singed hair and burning wax clogged his nostrils and despite the force of the wind, the flames rising from the Holy oil miraculously didn’t go out. They bend against the force, licking across the floor in bursts of orange and yellow yet not charring a single thing in its path. 

Another light bulb explodes above his head, and luckily the thick material of his jacket and jeans save his skin from being burned. 

With a final grit of his teeth, he speaks, “Veni ad me!” and lights his zippo with a quick drag over his jacket clad arm and drops it in the bowl causing a small fireball to emit from it.

Raising an arm above his head to shield his face from any damage, Dean tenses his body in preparation for another blast of air only for a flash of light to fill the room, almost as if it were a secluded strike of lightning. Blinding and powerful, eviscerating in its existence but mute in the sudden absence of anything. 

And like a blanket being draped over his shoulders, Dean was suddenly hit with an overwhelming surge of a calm sedation. Warmth filled his stomach and spread through his body as though it infected his blood stream. It flowed up his neck, his shoulders melting, and to his cheeks, almost as if someone had placed their hands there, cupping his face softly. He could practically feel the individual fingers against his stubbled skin, and he lets his eyes flutter shut.

The fire flared hot against Dean’s front, dancing in recognition to power. Raw and unrestrained as it pulses outwards in comforting warmth. 

He could feel him. He could sense him there. It was overwhelming. 

“Cas…” the familiar name slipped past his lips in a faint whisper.

Then the rattling stopped. The wind calmed and the world was quiet again. The crickets were back on their banter and all that interrupted was Dean’s soft open mouthed breaths, his body free of tension and his heart almost still.

He didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t. The warm touch on his cheeks still lingered like a small burn but he couldn’t stop it or ease it away. The hope that it worked kept him still. After all this time, after all the work he did over the last 3 months, and after all the blood sweat and tears he put into this mission to actually have it work and pay off, he was afraid to move and have it disappear at the blink of an eye, or the scuff of a boot.

The silence was deafening, and he couldn’t take it any longer. 

“Cas…” he repeated, not as soft as before, but his voice cracked the slightest bit. He waited for a reply. He waited for the deep register of his angel to respond, letting him know that he succeeded, and that everything was okay. He needed the reassurance that it was over.

But it never came, not in the form he desperately craved. The warmth of his body never retreated, never seeped from his softened stance as he blinked open his eyes. A film of smoke clung to the air, shifting with every move of his body as tendrils of the transparent grey fell like ribbons to the floor. Clearing his view of the figure before him, sat on the floor with their legs crossed in a delicate fashion. 

“Hello, Dean,” the featureless figure murmured, soft voice chording across his name in gentle greeting but the reality of the smooth, evenly timbre voice slammed into Dean like a ton of bricks. It was too soft, too feminine- didn’t curl around his name with that fragile adoration. They unfolded with natural grace, rising to their full height in one swift movement and in a blink, Dean was craning his head back just to gaze up at the figure- the man. 

A man. But not Cas. 

Sharp blue eyes met his, even through the haze of smoke. “Who the hell are you?” Dean demanded, hand itching towards the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans at his lower back. Disappointment flared in his chest, demanding to be felt even as he leveled the stranger before him with a glare. Unwavering before the enemy, as his father always taught him. 

“I am who you called for,” the man said in confusion, head tipping to the side in a way that pulled at Dean’s heart strings. “I am the Archangel Chamuel.”

And with that, he stepped through the barrier of holy oil.


End file.
